


throw yourself to the wolves

by dead_tulips



Category: Daredevil (TV), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Ableism, BUT I HAVE, Eventual Character Death, FRANK IS BRIEFLY MENTIONED, Gen, M/M, Parental Death, Plans, Poverty, The Hunger Games AU, and graphic violence, foggy and matts very tactile friendship, for him, i should write matt murdock an apology letter, karen is barely in this yet im sorry, none of this is proofread im sorry, or wait is it more, rated m for matt, rating is for later chapters actually, she will be important though i promise, thg au, thg fusion, working title was Im Sorry Matt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-09 14:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dead_tulips/pseuds/dead_tulips
Summary: The scream rips itself from his throat before he can even think of the consequences."I VOLUNTEER!"





	1. Volunteer

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first fic ever in ... gosh, years. i'm sorry if the characterization is off, i genuinely tried my best to find Matt and Foggy's voices. hopefully u enjoy this thing that i wrote because i like hurting Matt apparently

"Franklin Nelson."

All of the air is knocked from Matt's lungs. He feels Foggy's hand let go of his, and every fiber of his being is screaming _no no no this is WRONG it can't be he's never even taken tesserae why him_  
The scream rips itself from his throat before he can even think of the consequences.

"I VOLUNTEER!"

The silence becomes deafening. Foggy is a few feet ahead of him now, and Matt can feel the panicked look he's probably giving him. Suddenly his friend is right in front of him, hands clutching his biceps so tightly that Matt can feel Foggy's nails digging into the skin there.

"Matt, no, please, don't do this, you can't." Foggy sounds desperate, terrified.  
"I have to. I can't let you, it has to be me." The words feel like lead in his mouth, heavy and foreboding.

The capitol escort on stage crows in delight. Twelve has never had a volunteer before, its' people too hungry and beaten down by the mines to be able to afford that kind of sacrifice.  
Matt leans forward and presses his forehead against Foggy's. He whispers an assurance that they'll talk before he's taken away, but _i need to go up there now, Foggy_. He won't let the cameras that he guesses are pointed on him have any more of them than they already do.  
The crowd parts before him, as he prods the ground in front of him with his cane, a homemade thing whittled from the trees past the gate. He hears their escort gasp sharply as she sees him come forward, and he can almost smell the pity and confusion. He steels himself, raises his head and tries to look tall as he climbs the steps to the reaping stage.

He makes it up, next to her and the girl tribute, _Karen_ , and the capitol woman stutters and stumbles.

"W-well, who might we... have here?" Matt is quite certain this woman has never been so shocked. A blind boy from the seam volunteering for a merchie? Yeah, this is probably the shock of her life.  
"Matt Murdock, ma'am." He smiles placidly in her general direction, and he hears his dad's voice chanting _show no fear_ in the back of his mind.

 

\---

 

Losing his eyesight to save someone's life wasn't the first tragedy that struck little Matt Murdock, and it wouldn't be the last.  
Nine years old and lying on his sickbed while Claire Temple, their only healer in the Seam, applies more salve to his burnt eyelids, Matt wishes his mother were here. He won't say it out loud, wouldn't ever think of making dad feel like he's not enough, but he feels so helpless. Everything is dark and the sounds around him are all so loud in his ears, all he wants is to beg for Ma to come back, wherever she is.  
He can't cry, learned better in the past few days. The tears burn when they well up, so he bites his lip and waits for the feeling to pass. Tries to focus on the sounds Claire makes while she tends to him, tries to learn the world again.

After Claire leaves, he lets himself drift to sleep. It's restless, his dreams fading in and out, letting him see and then taking it away. He remembers pushing the old man, the supply carriage striking his small body, and the sharp sting of Capitol chemicals burning his eyes. The way the fumes burned his nostrils. He wakes up to dad's calloused hand carding through his sweat-damp hair, the rough baritone of his voice a welcome comfort.  
"Matty... you'll be okay. We'll fix this. You might not be able to see anymore, but that doesn't mean you can't be good at other things. You and me, we'll learn how to make things right. You're a hero, gotta remember that, son."  
Dad's hand shakes, ever so slightly, and Matt reaches up to grab it with his.

 

\---

 

After that, Dad starts taking him out past the gate when he goes to hunt game under the Peacekeepers' noses. Teaches him to sit in silence, and listen, _really listen_ , Matty. Shows him how to recognize edible plants and berries by the smell and feel of them.  
Brings him to the underground boxing ring at the Hob, where Dad makes the money that's kept them alive for a while now.  
Matt learns to punch, to weave and dodge, to use his sharpened hearing to his advantage so he can predict where Dad will jab next.  
He learns to sew up cuts, working by feeling the split skin under his sensitive fingertips.  
Twelve has no room for charity and Matt learns to care for himself, quick as a whip. Jack boasts about his boy, _look at him go, fast little devil_ , and Matt breathes easier every day. He can do this, he can be strong.

It only hits Matt while he's standing in the justice building years later that this, above all else, the Games, is what Dad was training him for. His hands twist in the fabric of his rough, worn pants and he hears _You're a hero, son_ like a ghost.

 

\---

 

Nothing lasts forever. The ring gets busted by peacekeepers, dad goes to work in the mines instead.  
And then everything shatters.  
_A terrible accident_ , they're calling it. A collapse, no one could have known.  
Matt might only be eleven, but he's not naive. The missing miners were all part of the ring, his dad among them.  
When the people from the group home come for him, he hides, Dad's gutting knife and bow strapped to his small back. He can do this. He'll hunt, he'll trade and he'll keep himself alive because Dad taught him well. Next year he can start taking out tesserae, for when game is scarce.  
He says a short, old-fashioned prayer he learned from Dad, and sets out. 

 

\---

 

Trading is how Matt meets Franklin "Foggy" Nelson properly. They go to school together, but merchies and Seam kids don't mix all that much. He remembers how Foggy used to look as a child, but he imagines that he's become all sinewy growth and awkward angles like Matt himself now that they're fourteen.  
Matt usually deals with the baker himself, but on one sunday morning, Foggy answers his quiet knock at the door instead.  
They exchange Matt's squirrels for the baker's bread, and it isn't until a few blocks further that he realises the bag Foggy handed him is heavier than it should be, and the shame burns hot. He doesn't want pity, hates the way people see him as weak because _of course the blind kid who's been looking out for himself for 3 whole years now can't handle it_.  
He turns around and storms his way to the back door of the bakery, knocking with his cane. Foggy answers it again, and sounds confused when he asks if Matt is okay.  
"Don't," he barks as he shoves the extra loaf back at the other boy, "pity me. I know Twelve like the back of my hand, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I only want fair deals, like everyone else."  
Foggy touches his arm, and Matt flinches back.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to help. Seems like a lot for you to handle yourself, is all." The worst is that Foggy sounds genuinely remorseful and Matt suddenly regrets letting his pride guide him.  
"It's fine. Just... no more. I earn what I eat, carry my weight like everyone else."  
Matt puts emphasis on those last few words, the repetition, hoping he's made himself clear.  
Foggy makes a quiet sound, something like understanding, and Matt leaves him to finish his rounds.

 

\---

 

Over the next two years, Matt gets to know Foggy, becomes his friend. He learns that Foggy hates blackberries, the acrid taste sticking to his tongue and souring everything else. He prefers the rounder, sweeter berries that are harder to come by. He learns Foggy is more partial to decorating cakes than baking them. He learns Foggy has a brother, Theo, that he's pretty close to.  
Matt brings him to the clearing, the one far enough past the gates that he can hear the sound of the Capitol forcefield buzzing lowly. They lay together in the grass, and one day Foggy badgers Matt into touching his face, so the Seam boy can get a feel of what he looks like.  
It feels intimate and raw, to sit there and ghost his hands over Foggy's features. He traces the outline of the other boy's lips with his index, cards his fingers through the shaggy hair, takes notice of the way Foggy's eyes crinkle at the outer corners. He paints a picture in his mind of the way his friend looks, imagines how bright his smile must be. He can feel the resolve coming to life in his chest, the conviction that he will make sure that Foggy will always be happy and safe, no matter what it costs Matt.

 

\---

The memories threaten to drown him as Foggy stands across from him in a cramped room in the Justice Building, only five minutes between them to say two years' worth of words.  
"Why, Matt? Why would you volunteer for me?" Foggy's voice catches as he asks the question, and Matt itches to reach out and hold his hand.  
"I had to. I can't let you go in there. You have a family, a future." Matt licks his lower lip nervously, waiting for an answer.  
"What about you? You think that just because your dad's dead and your ma's nowhere to be found, that means no one'll miss you? I'm your family, damn it, Matt."  
"I'll come back," Matt vows as he crosses the distance between them and links their fingers, "I'll do my best to come back and we'll have a house in the Village and you'll be safe and happy there. Just let me do this for you."  
Foggy leans forward and presses his tear-streaked face into the curve of Matt's shoulder.  
"Fine, but you'd better come back. It's Nelson and Murdock, not Nelson all by himself."  
Matt laughs wetly, his own tears choking him up, and he lets Foggy cling to him until Peacekeeper Mahoney clears his throat to signal that their time is up. His friend slips a small round piece of wood into his hands, says he carved their names on it, and Matt can have it as his district token.  
Matt rubs his fingers against the grooves in the wood, committing them to memory, all the way to the train.


	2. Remake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 4am and i just finished this i'm sorry if it's baaaaaaaad.
> 
> also Jessica's pretty context-typical ableist in this one, and i figure that now is the time to warn you that unfortunately there will be more of that later on.

That night, on the train, Matt settles on a couch softer than anything he's ever touched. Karen sits next to him, and for a moment, they're both quiet.  
He knows Karen from school, too. A sweet girl, always looking out for others, but never condescending. When he trades with her father, he always brings a few sprigs of mint and the wild strawberries he sometimes finds in the woods, just for her.

"They're about to show the Reapings again. Do you... uh, need me to... describe them to you, or something?" Karen sounds nervous, like she's afraid of overstepping some unseen boundary. He guesses she's probably fiddling with the buttons of whatever she's wearing.

"If you could, that'd be great. I'm okay with my surroundings, but Capitol broadcasts have never been very... useful, for me." He forces a smile that he hopes looks reassuring. He hates this, asking for help, but he needs her right now. 

She makes a soft sound of understanding, and they spend the next few hours together on the couch, Karen describing the tributes of the other districts to him. At one point, she lays her head on his shoulder and Matt angles himself towards her, her warmth a comforting blanket in this unfamiliar space. 

 

\---

 

Jessica Jones absolutely _reeks_ of cheap white liquor from the Hob, and it's torture being near her. Even without Matt's heightened awareness he'd know she was standing in front of him, with the way his nostrils burn from the fumes she seems to give off permanently.  
The sole living Victor from Twelve, and the only thing she's known for is singlehandedly keeping the underground alcohol trade alive.  
As Matt tries to subtly massage his forehead in hopes of quelling the pain he can feel building there, an argument erupts between their mentor and Karen.

"Aren't you going to help us, instead of just standing there, drunk off your ass?" Karen's voice is razor sharp, in a way he's never heard it before.

"What do you expect from me? Nothing I say or do is gonna change the fact that you look like you can't lift a sack of flour, and _he can't fucking see_." Matt bristles at the way Jessica says that last part.

"No, but I can hear." The pain makes his voice tight, his irritation on full display.

"The only way this ends is with me sending you two home in boxes. Neither of you stands a chance if someone comes after you. I'll be shocked if he even makes it out of the bloodbath. Just watch this." She sounds dismissive, almost bored, and it burns because Matt is better than that. He's better than a fucking wooden box, better than any of them think he is.

The events that follow happen very quickly.

Matt hears the clatter of silverware as Jessica grabs a knife from the table, Karen's gasp, and the metallic sound of a knife cutting through the air, coming straight at him.  
Next thing he knows, his palm stings because _of course he caught the damn thing blade first_ , and he no longer senses any movement from the room's two other occupants.

After a few moments of tense silence, Jessica lets out a low whistle.

"Damn, kid."

 

\---

 

Things get easier with Jessica after that. She's not sober but she seems to genuinely try, giving them advice on how to make themselves appealing to sponsors when the time comes.

By the time they make it to the Capitol, he feels as though they've reached an understanding.

Being "remade" is the worst part of this experience so far. Unfamiliar hands touching him everywhere, prodding and plucking, leaving him feeling more helpless than he has in years.  
The voices of the stylists are too close, and their different perfumes overwhelm him. His hand clenches so hard on the bedframe when he feels fingers go towards his eye that the metal bends.

When he emerges from the chamber in fabrics so silky he's stuck between relief at the way they feel against his skin and almost being uncomfortable in them, Jessica swears.  
"Goddamnit, they had to be obvious, didn't they?"

Matt tilts his head nervously, waiting for her to explain.

"They dyed your fucking eyes black."

Matt chokes out a short, almost hysterical laugh at the absurdity of that idea. He lets Jessica explain they've dressed him in an outrageous red, 3-piece suit, and that they've dressed Karen in a black ballgown, wanting to evoke the image of coal and fire, as a tribute to the mines of Twelve. They both apparently have black dust smeared around their eyes, and Matt's irises and sclera have been dyed black to match.

He finds the idea of the eyes the most unnerving part of the image he paints in his head, feeling forced into wearing his blindness openly, making it define him.

Once they're on the chariot that will carry them across the parade's route, Matt has no idea in which direction to angle his face, and there's still a light tremor in his legs. He settles for holding his head high, clenching his jaw and hoping that the crowd won't be able to see how unsettled he is.

 

\---

 

Somewhere, up high in the stands, the Gamemakers take notice of the boy with the sightless, coal-black eyes, and regard him curiously.


	3. Shoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyyyyyy sorry for slow updating i just started school so things have been crazy. Hopefully people still enjoy this and i did a decent job translating Matt's abilities to the HG world

Most of their time in the training center is spent at the poisonous and edible plants station, as Matt guides Karen through it with his knowledge.

"There's no guarantee we'll be in an arena with a lot of vegetation, but better safe than sorry." He smiles gently as he palms a handful of nightlock berries, their sickly sweet smell wafting in the air.

"Matt, how do you do that? Know what everything is without seeing it." Awe seeps through Karen's voice, wholesome and not at all doubtful. So Matt opens up to her.

He explains how his father taught him to recognize the smells and textures, how losing his sight forced him to focus on his other senses (and keeps to himself that he's always thought the Capitol chemicals might have done something... _odd_ to him. Because he knows almost exactly what Karen's posture is right now, and that isn't something he can explain.)

"You know... we would make a pretty good team, the two of us." Her bravado as she says this is admirable, only betrayed by a hint of shakiness.  
"I'd like that, Karen. I really would."

 

\---

 

They eat all of their meals together, the promise of an alliance sealing an already budding friendship. On the last day before their evaluations, Karen brings up an oddity.

"The ... boy ... from Two," Karen hesitates over the word _boy_ because he is a clearly a man, a wall of muscle waiting to crush everyone, "Frank, I think? He's... off. Usually the careers stick together, but he's been on his own this whole time."

"Well, that's certainly strange."

"He seems... almost angry, at them?" Here, she sounds confused.

"All the better for us, I suppose. If there's a gap in their _united front_." He doesn't quite manage to contain the note of disdain that colors his tone.

(Matt won't realize how true that is until much later. By then, he'll add it to the pile of guilts that aren't truly his that he carries everywhere, like a whole world on his shoulders.)

 

\---

 

Karen should return from her private session with the Gamemakers soon.

Matt leans against the wall, his muscles relaxed.

_I've got this._

He knows the Gamemakers don't expect much from him, the now black-eyed blind boy who cocks his head eerily at the sounds around him. That'll play to his favor. It'll also leave the other tributes bewildered if he can get a decent or better score. He knows they all expect him to get a 4 at most.

He's heard the way they whisper about him, constantly. Even the youngest, most fragile tributes share hushed conversations about the gentle boy who volunteered.  
He's an anomaly, an error in the code.

He hears the door open, then Karen's delicate footsteps coming in his direction. She stops in front of him to briefly press a kiss to his cheek, and whisper him well wishes. He smiles in her direction, and then enters the chamber.

He slowly makes his way to center of the room, and angles his head towards the sound of nasally Capitol accents.

"Matt Murdock. District 12." he announces, voice steady.

Everything is quiet for a beat. He begins to feel his way around the room, keeping an ear out for the voices of the Gamemakers above him, the sound of their feet on the platform somewhere up high, trying to pin down where they are.

They get bored of this very quickly, and return to their conversations.

Matt finds the weapon table easily. He stills when his fingers slide across the smooth surface of a bow. 

_Well, there's an idea._

_Just like I taught ya, Matty_ , he imagines his father saying.

He fiddles with the bow for a few moments, feeling the smooth, grooveless wood, and reaches for the full quiver that lays next to it.

He picks out the spot above that's close enough to the Gamemakers to have an impact but without actually harming anyone if he's lucky, and he does it with supernatural ease. Like slipping on a second skin, he marches back to the center of the room, nocks an arrow and raises the bow, aims it upwards. 

_One breath._  
_Two._  
_Three._

He lets the arrow loose and it hisses against the air that it flies through.

A dull _thunk_ resonates across the now dead silent room. Then, the sound of someone dropping a plate in shock.

He bows, all rigid propriety, and thanks them for their consideration.


End file.
